ATLANTA — Four Florida A&M University students were expelled for their role in what is believed to be a hazing death of a marching band member. Three more members appeared in court Tuesday to fight charges that they beat a fellow member so hard during a hazing ritual that she was left with a broken thigh. It was the latest blemish for culturally rich and cherished historically black colleges and university (HBCU) campuses.
Hazing is part of the price band members pay at HBCUs to be part of a vaunted tradition that eclipses the prestige and popularity of the football team. Band members can endure anything from punching to paddling to being forced to drink copious amounts of water, all for a chance to perform in front of thousands of people at football games, parades and other high-profile events.
At HBCUs, band members are often given perks and treated like celebrities.
“If you were in the band, it was like you were a superstar,” said Fontreia James, a piccolo player for three years in the marching band at Jackson State University in Mississippi. “People don’t come to the games to see the football team. People come to see the band.”
In the fall, halftime is game time for the band and fans at HBCUs, which are mostly in the South. Few people leave to get refreshments or take a bathroom break. The crowd cheers and applauds as the band high-steps out onto the field, dancing and marching in sync in elaborate formations, playing songs ranging from traditional marching band numbers to Motown hits to today’s chart-toppers.
They do it week after week in heavy uniforms, holding instruments in the blazing heat. Band nicknames are almost as well-known as the school mascot: The Human Jukebox, The Sonic Boom of the South and, in Florida A&M’s case, the Marching “100.”
Started in 1892 with fewer than 20 instruments, the Marching “100” has grown to more than 400 members and is regarded as a pioneer, performing at Super Bowls, the Grammys and presidential inaugurations. The band even represented the U.S. in Paris at the 200th anniversary celebration of the French Revolution.
The most revered members are the drum majors, described as the generals. They are as popular on campus as a star quarterback would be at other colleges. Florida A&M has several drum majors, including the late Robert Champion, who died Nov. 19 after he collapsed on a charter bus just a few hours after a football game with a rival.
Authorities have still not said how the junior died, only that hazing played a role. University President James Ammons referred to the student dismissals in a memo he sent to the school’s board of trustees but didn’t specify what they did.
According to 911 tapes, Champion had vomit in his mouth the moments before he died and he couldn’t breathe.
“We need an ambulance ASAP,” an unidentified caller says in a recording obtained by AP. “His eyes are open but he’s not responding.”
Champion’s death was puzzling because of his high position within the band and because he was an upperclassman.
The Florida Department of Law Enforcement, the Orlando Sheriff’s Office and the Florida Board of Regents are ivestigating the incident. “Drum majors are always in the front, always in the limelight,” said Jermaine Culbreath, who was head drum major last year at Bethune-Cookman University in Daytona Beach. “Walking around campus, you have a lot of people speaking to you, saying they saw you on the field. Half the people, you don’t even know who they are. You have alumni coming up to you, you have all these people who really appreciate what you do.”
The hierarchy within the band can get complex. Some members join a fraternity, Kappa Kappa Psi, founded on the campus of Oklahoma State University in 1919 to serve college band programs.
Instrument section leaders also wield power in “mini-fraternities” within the band, according to Richard Sigal, a retired sociology professor at County College of Morris in Randolph, N.J.
For example, former FAMU clarinet player Ivery Luckey said he was paddled around 300 times and hospitalized in 1998 in order to join his section, called “The Clones”’
To perform on the field or at events, Luckey had to do whatever the older students told him to, said Sigal, who holds anti-hazing workshops at schools and was hired by Luckey’s attorneys in a lawsuit against the school.
One of the worst hazing cases occurred in 2001 and involved former FAMU band member Marcus Parker, who suffered kidney damage because of a beating with a paddle. In 2008, two first-year French horn players in Southern University’s marching band were beaten so badly they had to be hospitalized. A year later, 20 members of Jackson State University’s band were suspended after being accused of hazing.
Former state Sen. Al Lawson, a Florida A&M alumnus, was named to a university task force to look into Champion’s death. That probe has been delayed pending the criminal investigation.
Lawson said hazing was difficult for the school to deal with. “They’re students but they really kind of take over. The staff is too small,” he said. “You’ve got to have some people to depend on to take care of 400, 500 people. As they get to senior status, they have a lot of power. These students really don’t think they’re doing anything wrong.”
Hazing has long been a problem at college fraternities generally, as well as among athletic teams and other groups. But the Greek culture gets amplified at HBCUs and the bands over time have replicated that, according to Ricky Jones, author of Black Haze: Violence, Sacrifice, and Manhood in Black Greek-Letter Fraternities.
“These cases are really paralleling what’s going on in the black Greek organizations across the country,” Jones said. “Over the years, the bands have mimicked the fraternities.”
Unlike hazing at some colleges, alcohol plays a lesser role at HBCUs and in the band, Jones said.
“They see going through this struggle, that has nothing to do with music obviously, but they see it as reaffirming of their dedication to the band, their dedication to their section, and a rite of passage,” Jones said. “It’s all about this very intense desire at that age to belong and be accepted. And it’s getting people killed and injured.”
There are perks for the band as a whole, too: charter buses with TVs, private cafeteria breakfasts before away games and a weekly allowance for entertainment.
The commitment begins long before classes start. During the summer, practices start before sunrise. Days and nights are spent together, forming a bond that lasts long after graduation. The band becomes a second family.
“You looked out for your classmates,” said James, the Jackson State alumna. “I went to homecoming last month. The people I came in the band with still can reminisce, talk about how things were when we were in the band.”
That bond creates a loyalty and protective culture that is hard to penetrate. Several current and former band members were reluctant to discuss hazing at their schools. While most acknowledged its existence, none said they considered themselves victims.
“When I look at some of these instances where people have been hurt, it really bothers me,” James said. “Most of the people that do that tend to be these rogue people. This had nothing to do with the band. You’re just a thug. You’re bringing yourself into the band, which removes the whole unity element.”
Armario reported from Miami. Associated Press writers Mike Schneider in Orlando and Gary Fineout and Brent Kallestad in Tallahassee, contributed to this report.
Photo: Robert Champion